Yesterday was Easter Day and we went to church for the first time (in England) for six months. This is probably the longest time in my life I have spent without attending services at a local church.
It was a beautiful, cold, but sunny, morning and we went with our daughter and her family to their ‘new’ church – a lovely light Georgian building high above the River Severn. As befits an Easter Sunday service the singing was glorious led by an excellent choir (including our grandson). The familiar words of the eucharist were fresh and hopeful. A truly joyous occasion!
An occasion made the more significant by the feeling of freedom, of floating free from the constraints, the frustrations, the depressing familiarity of ‘church-going’ that has been such a dominant part of my life. Yes there have been high spots in the various and varied churches we have attended over the years, many friendships, many truly lovely people and much good work done in the care of each other and those in the communities around the churches.
But involvement in church life has also been draining, frustrating and depressing. There are, sometimes unspoken – sometimes spoken, expectations, obligations and assumptions about beliefs and values which require a conformity I have found (with something of a non-conformist background!) wearing. Too often my inner voice has been saying ‘not in my name, I do not want to be associated with…’ in relation to some national church pronouncement or local church activity. Too often I have wondered what my fellow churchgoers really made of the ‘Virgin Birth’ or the ‘Resurrection’ and too often I have tried to justify my churchgoing to skeptical children, grandchildren and friends.
So what took me so long? That is a long story and one for me to ponder. And what now – well – God knows I guess!